The Return Of The Prince
by LetMePlayYouSome
Summary: Yes, he had died, but the bones were not properly disposed of, and there's a lot you can do with bones. Abraham Van Helsing should have foreseen this, and as for Mina, perhaps she will get her prince once again. I ask for critic comments, for this is but a draft, ladies and gentlemen. Rated M for a reason, you hath been warned.


It had been seven long years since the death of the Count Vlad Dracula, the faithful Gypsies felt lost without their once powerful liege, his image, and his praises. Word grew steadily amongst his forgotten followers of a witch, mother of the supernatural, who could bring those deceased back to the earth in a living form. It took several months to track and find her, but eventually they had, offering gold for the feat they wished her to perform. The woman was incredibly old, her thinning white hair went past her back, teeth rotted, body hunched over and her eyes a pale yellow. The article she wore was hardly considered clothing more than it was a large dirty blanket with holes cut for her twig like arms and a small head. The shack she resided in was of no better condition, there was constant drafts, the floors nothing but dirt and sand. She laughed at their request, a dry, sickly laugh at that.

"You want to raise the undead from the very depths of hell? You shall be considered fools, however... Madam Ilsa shall do your bidding, if you be willing to take certain measures to ensure your lord's return." She sneered, running her mold covered hands over one another.

"Yes, we are prepared! Tell us what must be done!" One of the gypsy men shouted eagerly, earning another cackle from the old hag.

"Tomorrow at noon, you shall take Madam Ilsa to the castle Dracula, and bring with you an innocent child, a virgin, and a holy man... Now go!" She screeched, sending the men running from the shack and into the cold of the ancient forest.

All night the group searched for these people, kidnapping the child and a young virgin woman, tying their wrists and putting fabric to stifle their cries. It was no easy task, for victims were scarce at this hour, unless you were a master of seduction and deceit, which they obviously weren't.

When dawn arose, they went to the witch.  
She smiled a nearly toothless grin, running a finger along the jaw of the three year old girl, whose eyes closed tightly at the stench and appearance.

"You have done well with these two... But where is the holy man!" She yelled.

"You idiot!" One of the men shouted, seemingly the leader as he grabbed another by the moleskin coat and shook him violently. "Did you not take heed on my words!" He threw the man to the ground.

"Quiet you fools! There are other ways." The witch states, hobbling to the shack. The sound of glass, metal and ceramics could be heard bumping against each other as they were being moved. When the hag returned, she carried a patch-work satchel. She pointed to the man in charge with a long crooked finger. "You, I shall ride with you, unless your horse be lame."

The gypsy looked slightly offended, "Lame? My horse be fit for kings."

"Good, now take Madam Ilsa to this castle."

The ride would be thought perilous for most, icy paths, and shear cliffs that would have you plummet to the icy river below. Many had fallen to their deaths here, but the gypsies were protected, protected by the very curse that had once taken the land.

"Ahead! There lies the castle yonder, we are nearly there!"

Indeed, the dreary structure sat between two ice-capped peaks, many of the towers and walls in ruins. Once closer one could see the faded gray slate of the stones, and the many dead trees that outlined the perimeter, rusted weapons, and scattered bones. The men unloaded their cargo, victims, and helped the witch from the horse. She awed the castle, feeling the stone and metal bars off the drop-gate. "Get this ruddy gate up!" She screeched, stepping back so they could do their work.

The group pushed against the heavy steal, trying to raise it, the struggle soon paying off as it slung upwards. They were commanded inside, two having to carry the hostages that had been brought.

There could not be a more eerie feeling, as the large wooden door creaked open into the darkness of the abandoned castle, the spiders crawling back to the webs above, and the rats scurrying to the cracks in the Walls.

"Feels like home, hm?" The hag cackled as she entered, grabbing a spider before it could flee and popping it into her mouth with a crunch.

The men revolted at the sight.

"Where, is the sarcophagus?" The witch questioned as she snatched a lamp from one of the men.

"The lowest level of the castle, where soil meets stone, it is there that we will find it."

"Good, then have your men go, open it and take the child and woman there. You shall come with me." Motioning for the head of the group to follow, the old witch walked further towards the darkness of the large room.

"Shouldn't one of them stay and watch the horses?"

"More just like keeping the wolves at bay, but if you wish... Ah! Yes!" She exclaimed as the light of her lamp caught the shine of a gold and jeweled crucifix. Moving closer, there was a cove with holy ornaments, books and artifacts. A red rug rolled over the steps to a large stone cross, and at the foot of it, the bones of a deceased prince.

The skeleton was incredibly intact, besides the skull being detached and a hole through the sternum, the bones where a pristine white, and on the right hand was a ring, with the Dracul seal imprinted upon it. Madam Ilsa got onto her knees, grinning like the mad woman she was and laughing. Her hand felt over the rib cage, and femur, before she reached forward and took the skull delicately in both. "Get something to carry all these."

The gypsy that accompanied her complied, searching around until he found an old chest. He lifted it, a bit heavy, but once filled with bones, it was even more so. He struggled, forced to carry it down several flights of stairs, the mounted torches lit from those already passed that way.

Outside, a storm was brewing heavily in the distance, the one who was to tend the horses had them tied to trees and posts so they would not flee if it got worse. Though, he knew it would get worse, for he could visibly see the lightning cracking within the looming clouds. The thunder making itself heard for miles and the sky, was darkening like a bad dream.

The chest nearly slipped from his grasp as it was set hard onto an old table shrouded in dust. As one were to look around, the room was dank with slate floor that had been broken and withered to dirt in some areas, and small windows near the ceiling let in little light. In the center, was a large sarcophagus, opened like two doors down the middle, each half was one sculpted side of a handsome dead lord. The witch moved around it, touching the sacred rock in which it had been carved. "Bring the bones! Put them here!" She hissed, as she retrieved the skull and set it inside the stone coffin.

After the bones had been placed she turned to the head of the group. "You have been most kind to me, I would like to make it up to you." She reached into her satchel, pulling out a canteen, of which only she knew that the water would cleanse him of all sins. "Here, take this and drink, it will give you strength."

The man, at first hesitant gave a weak smile and took the offer. He removed the cork, and downed the water, throwing the container to the side. "Now what must we do?"

"Ah, you have done enough for now. The others will handle everything." One last time she put a hand into the bag she carried, and when she removed it, the witch was wielding a vicious looking dagger. "Bring the woman! Place her head over the side of the sarcophagus!"

The virgin gave a muffled scream as she was lifted, kicking and thrashing, though it was to no use. She was set down, her hair held tight to let her head hang over the array of bones below. The witch moved towards her, chanting in some foreign tongue, the dagger glinting wickedly.

Rain started to pour down, the sky was the darkest of grays. A great wind began picking up, shaking the trees to their very roots. The man outside had to take shelter under an overhang, his clothes soaking through.

With the dagger now to the Virgin's neck, and the chanting louder, the old hag sliced the woman's throat, letting the blood spatter across the bones. "Let the blood flow..." She hissed like before, leaving the corpse draped over the stone side. The bottom steadily filling with the red substance. "The child, bring me the child!"

The child was brought, and the witch took her into an arm. "Blood of a virgin, and the blood of an innocent!" She screeched, making a serration on the child's index finger, the four drops falling to join the rest. The young girl cried and wailed as she was passed to someone else.

"It's bubbling..." said the man who was leading the group as he bent over the sarcophagus, "And there's... So much... Blood." There was no way it was possible that there could be that much, it had practically doubled in amount, the bones submerged beneath it all.

The witch rubbed at her chin, taking steps closer and closer behind him. "You know, I almost forgot to add the last thing. A holy man."

The man turned around, and the witch took her move, shoving the gypsy back so he tripped over the edge and into the blood bath. He screamed in pain as he was dissolved completely into the blood. Then there was silence. Only the rain, wind and thunder could be heard, but none spoke, none dared to.

The blood had gone still, no more sizzles, broiling or pops. An hour passed this way, nothing seemed to occur, that was until a ripple spread through the surface of the red pool... And another. The group rose to their feet.

It erupted and splashed over the edges of the stone as a figure drenched in red flung himself over the end of the sarcophagus, gasping and clinging to the side. He weakly pushed himself up and over the stone and landed onto the slate, coughing and trying to catch air. He turned onto his side, swallowing and shaking.

The witch laughed menacingly, "There's your great Count! Now would one of you imbeciles get him some clothes!"

He coughed again, pushing himself up some and tried to clear the blood from his eyes, but it did not work. "What have you done?" He scrambled to stand, clumsily so as he hurriedly went towards two wood doors that were locked with chains. He reached them, and barreled through, the chain breaking and he collapsed onto the wet soil outside; the thunder greeting him with a loud deafening boom.

The rain began to wash away the red from his bare body as he held his head in his hands, his eyes watering though it merged with the water that dripped over him. He slammed his fists on the ground, looking up towards the sky, his dark hair wet on his back. He blinked heavily, holding a hand to shield his face from the cold drops. "Mina!" He yelled out, not in anger, but sorrow and pain.

Baring his teeth in frustration, he stood and turned towards the castle, looking at the witch. "You! What have you done! I am yet again cursed!" He yelled, stepping back inside and upturning a nearby table. "Damn you all! Damn you and fester in hell for which I have came!"

The witch cowered and so did the others, the only one to approach was with a robe, which the prince snatched. "Away with you!" And the individual scrambled away, tripping in fear. He slipped the fabric over his shoulders, hands falling to his sides and clenching. "Why must this be? Have I not suffered enough!" He shouted towards the ceiling. He went to another table, grabbing it and tossing it across the room, letting it smash to splinters.

In anguish he dropped to his knees, into the dust of broken stone, "Why! I demand an answer!" He took several deep breaths, and then those cold eyes hardened further, a guttural growl seemed to come from within him. There was a name that flashed through his thoughts, a clerk. "Jonathan Harker..." He stated lowly, hate present in his words.

"Jonathan Harker? Who is this Harker man of which you speak?" The witch asked, keeping her distance from the undead.

"He took her from me... My Mina...my love." He rose staring solemnly at the ground for some moments. "My beautiful bride... He murdered me! Leaving the grief for her to bear. My god hates me! I waited many years to be with Elisabeta, and not even hell could reunite us!" The skies flashed and the thunder cracked, seeming to share the Count's anger. It was a downpour of his sorrow.


End file.
